


Peace

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones
Genre: Beach Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Past Torture, Rescue, Some violence at the beginning but that's it, happy endings, references to trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sappy fic in which Theon finds a happy ending and love. I felt I owed this to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acerbitas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbitas/gifts).



Theon did not even scream as he was thrown down the concrete stairs. It was no heroic restraint or dignified defiance of willpower; he did not have that in him anymore. He had nothing in him anymore. He had failed.

He remained where he landed on the freezing floor, arms and legs tangled up painfully. Not that his arms and legs mattered anymore.

_You thought what you had before was bad?_ Ramsay had snarled, hours ago, as he ripped the last bits of slimy flesh away from Theon’s thighs and shoulders. The man’s arms and legs were fully exposed now, all the way up from the digits to the torso, stripped of dermis and epidermis and fat and muscle. Stripped down to nerves and bones. _Well, I’ll show you what punishment in the Dreadfort truly is. That’s what happens when you leave me, you worthless fucking cunt. You really thought those men at Stannis’s camp who didn’t give a shit about you would protect you when my forces arrived?_ Theon, wavering in and out of consciousness, had no power to say anything. No power to do anything. Nothing.

Being hurled down the steps had jarred him out of the sweet black bliss of sleep. Before that, the last time he had been awake, the maester had told Ramsay that Theon would have only a 20/80 chance of survival--more like 10/90 without proper treatment, but in truth, no one cared how he was treated. He had left Ramsay, or tried to; he had no worth at all now, not even as a pet slave. Theon knew that if he did live, his arms and legs would go the same way as his fingers and toes: rotten and gone, leaving him a hunk of flesh, immobile and with no purpose save for freakish fuck-toy and object of revulsion. They had already split his cock in half up the middle long ago, long ago, and now this. Now this.

Crashing waves of agony came back again. He started to whimper, then keen, then sob like a wounded infant. Of course no one came in the dark. No one would come, ever again, not for him. He curled into a ball, ignoring the layers of shit on the floor that caked into his exposed pink muscle and veins. The gangrene would start soon no doubt, and then, it was only a matter of time before he’d end up like Ralf Kenning or worse.

Theon shut his eyes, desperate for anything, desperate for at least a little warmth. He realized he’d had no food, nor water, in days. Maybe weeks. The cold tightened its grip, enveloping him like a sheet of ice, but somehow it felt peaceful. He now knew that the grip of ice was the last and best embrace he could hope for.

Theon dragged himself into a corner, leaving a trail of blood with him. He was gasping for air now, struggling more and more with each breath. It hurt just to exist. He curled into the corner, as far away from the rest of the room as he could get, as though the stone walls could offer warmth or love. With one hand, he tentatively reached up to stroke his own hair. It hurt to move but it was a better touch than nothing. He pretended the mangled, bony remains of fingers petting his head were the hands of some rescuer, or of his mother, back on Pyke.

Exhaustion slowly took over him until he let his eyes drift shut.

#

Hours later. Maybe days. A hand on his shoulder.

Theon mewled, hating himself for the sound, and drew away out of reflex, but then stopped. These hands were not Ramsay’s. They were smaller, softer, and had touched his shoulder with gentleness.

He opened his eyes.

Kyra knelt beside him. Not Kyra the dog; Kyra the girl. Her hair and eyes shone brighter than he had ever remembered, and she wore a radiant white tunic that was too big for her, hanging down to her knees.

That’s my own tunic, Theon realized slowly. It was my tunic from Winterfell, and her favorite, and she used to always wear it around my chambers when she wasn’t ready to dress in her own clothing quite yet.

Last time Theon had seen Kyra, she had been a pulpy mess that haunted his nightmares ever since, but not this Kyra. Her arms and legs bore a few thin, barely-noticeable white scars that hinted at the memories, but just barely even there. Her skin was bronzy and smooth. The red of her hair and the blue of her eyes were the most color Theon had seen in weeks, in contrast to the gray cell walls and darkness around him.

“Come,” she said, taking his hand while leaning to kiss his forehead. She tugged at his arm and drew him up. “Come with me now. We’re going away from here.”

Theon had become overwhelmed by tears. This had to be some dream or hallucination, but he wanted it to be real, wanted it to be real more badly than anything. The whole room blurred around him. I can’t move, he tried to say, but as she pulled him up he found that he could. He gave in to the urge to look down at his legs, expecting a nauseating mess of blood and bone, but the room had blurred so much that he couldn’t see a thing. Kyra pulled him along, making him walk, but slowly, gently. Walking did not hurt. He couldn’t feel a thing.

Kyra led him slowly up the stairs and pushed open the door, but what was on the other side was definitely not the Dreadfort. A beach of smooth white sand waited outside, with brilliant green water that expanded out to infinity, and a pink-orange sunset in the sky.

“Come on, sweetie,” Kyra whispered. Her lips brushed sensually against his ear and nibbled gently at his earlobe. “Come with me now. You’re not back there anymore. You’ve leaving it behind.”

Theon started to sob loudly, sinking down to his knees. Kyra knelt down next to him and wrapped her arms around him, leaning her head against his shoulders, soothing him. She stroked his hair for a long time, until he stopped crying, until he could see again. Then she held him firmly by the shoulders and pushed him through.

As soon as they stood on the beach, the Dreadfort behind them disappeared. Kyra led him further down on the beach, to the place where the water lapped at the edge of the sand, and gently pushed him down. She lay down next to him, draping an arm over his middle and one of her own legs over his.

Theon sank his feet into the sand, and when he did, his stumps tingled with a sensation he had never felt before. Kyra instinctively buried more sand over his toes, then brushed them clean and rubbed them for a while, waiting thoughtfully.

“Theon,” she finally said after a few minutes. “Your toes are back now. Look.”

He looked, and his feet were whole again. His toes bore no evidence of the flaying save for barely-visible, faint scars where they’d been cut off. He moved his toes. He could move his toes. He choked up with emotion, ready to cry again, but before he could, Kyra climbed on top of him.

She took off his battered gray tunic and peeled it from his body. Theon’s skin in the Dreadfort had turned ashy, flabby and greyed, and sallow with hunger and lack of exercise, but now his body looked like hers: strong, tanned and radiant, angry red welts gone, purple-green bruises gone, flayed patches of missing skin gone. He looked the way he’d looked at Winterfell. Better, even.

Kyra stripped away his pants next, leaving him naked under the sky, amidst the white sand and lapping waves. He was fully whole again, but this time he was proud of his body and afraid of nothing, just like he had once been. When she firmly gripped his manhood to ease it inside her, he arched his back and moaned with ecstasy he had never remembered. Kyra stripped off her white tunic and rode him, alternating between slow and fast strokes, bringing him to the point of release before easing up and starting all over again. It took hours, and when he finally came, she came with him, wrapping her arms around him and bringing their faces together so that her nose touched his.

“I love you.”

Tears swam in Theon’s eyes. “I--I’m so sorry for--for before, I--”

“Shhh.” Kyra kissed his eyelids and wiped away the tears. “It doesn’t matter. You’re not going back there again.”

“Ever?”

“Ever. You belong here now.”

They swam together. She took his hand and led him into the water. The waves licked at Theon as though kissing his wounds away. She led him out deeper, so deep that their feet didn’t touch the ground anymore, but the water was still clear, so clear, not like the blackened freezing waters of Pyke. These waters were green and blue, light as a summer afternoon sky, and clear as glass.

“It’s the color of your eyes,” Kyra murmured. She swam to him and wrapped her arms around his. They leaned back into the waters, floating together, inhaling the scents of seawater and sex and carefree love. The scents of home.

They were both clean when they returned to land hours later. Kyra showed him where to find food in this place, and they ate their fill together outside, large portions of tropical fruit and wild honey and fire-grilled fish straight from the sea.

That night, Kyra led him to bed. It was in a little cottage she had built among the trees, sturdy enough to protect them from any storms that might come, but open, and wild, and right by the sea. The bed was like none he’d ever slept in before, ever, not even at Winterfell. It was a foam of some kind that fit his body perfectly. He almost moaned with pleasure just from the way the mattress and blankets felt around him, and from the warmth Kyra provided as she joined him in bed and snuggled against him, her arm and leg over him again with her head leaning on his shoulders.

_I am loved,_ Theon realized. _This is what it feels like._ The thought hit him like a tidal wave.

“I…” his voice had started to waver, but he forced it to remain still. “I don’t ever want to leave here.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t.” Kyra leaned over and kissed him, a full kiss on the lips, her tongue probing to part his lips. Their mouths moved together. Theon used his own tongue to trace his full set of unharmed white teeth. “You’re here forever. This is where you belong.”

“Promise?”

She kissed him again. “Promise.”

They fell asleep together, and when they awoke, they awoke in paradise.


End file.
